Peter sat curled up in the corner of a cold, concrete HYDRA cell, his thin frame hunched as he pressed himself against the wall. The dim light barely illuminated the mostly empty room, save for a lone rope swinging from the ceiling. Dirt clung to his skin, dried blood staining his tattered clothes. His breath was slow, and measured, but his stomach ached with hunger.
Footsteps echoed down the hallway, the heavy thud of boots sending a shiver through him. Peter tensed, lifting his head just as two HYDRA agents came into view, dragging a tall man between them. His hair had started to grow out, unkempt and filthy, much like the rest of him. Without ceremony, they threw him into the cell, his body hitting the floor with a dull thud.
“Have fun,” one of the agents sneered before slamming the door shut, the lock clicking into place.
Peter barely registered them leaving. All he could hear was the man’s heartbeat—steady, strong, and so, so tempting. Hunger ripped through him like a wildfire, his throat tightening as his fangs extended on instinct. He clenched his jaw, gripping his arms to steady himself, but the scent of blood was overwhelming. The man had moved, pressing against the wall, one hand clutching his side. Even in the dim light, Peter could see the deep crimson seeping through the fabric of his worn-out shirt.
Peter swallowed hard, his brain screaming at him to lunge, to drink, to feed. He dropped to his hands and knees, crawling forward, drawn to the scent like a moth to flame. The man lifted his head, sharp eyes locking onto him, and let out a low, warning growl. Peter froze, hissing in return, his fangs flashing as he halted just two feet away.
His gaze flickered to the blood pooling beneath the man’s fingers. A single drop slipped through and hit the floor. The scent flooded Peter’s senses, saliva pooling in his mouth. He ran his tongue over his fangs, feeling the venom gathering at the tips. Clenching his eyes shut, he reached down and tore a strip of fabric from his already-ruined shirt.
The man’s brows lifted slightly, his shoulders still tense, but he said nothing. Peter hesitated, then held out the fabric, his hands shaking. The man didn’t take it. Frustration flared, but Peter only gritted his teeth and placed it on the floor in front of him before retreating to the opposite corner. He curled in on himself, arms wrapping around his knees as he fought against the hunger gnawing at his insides. His entire body trembled with restraint.
Minutes passed in silence. Then, the soft rustling of fabric met Peter’s ears. He didn’t look up, but he knew—the man was using the makeshift bandage. The quiet sound of cloth pressing against skin should have been a relief, but all Peter could focus on was the scent of blood, thick and intoxicating. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his skin as he buried his face in his knees.
He didn’t notice the man moving closer until a deep, raspy voice broke through the tension.
“Thank you. But… why?”
Peter sniffled, his throat raw. “You’re not mean… You’re hurt… You don’t deserve it…” The words felt like sandpaper scraping against his throat, barely more than a whisper.
The man studied him for a long moment before extending his bloodied hand.
Peter’s breath hitched. His head shot up, eyes flashing red. “S-Stop… Please… I’ll hurt you.” His voice was panicked, his entire body shaking.
The man—James Barnes, as Peter would later learn—kept his hand outstretched but didn’t move closer. Instead, he crossed his legs, settling in. “You helped me. Let me help.”
Peter’s gaze darted to the fresh wound on the man’s wrist. Another drop of blood dripped onto the floor. His stomach twisted. His vision blurred at the edges.
Then he lost control.
His body moved on autopilot, surging forward. He gripped the man’s hand, licking it clean before sinking his fangs into his wrist. The only sign of pain James gave was a slight twitch of his eye. Peter could feel the blood rushing into his mouth, warm, rich, addicting. He coaxed more from the wound, knowing how easy it would be to drain him dry.
But he didn’t.
This man had done nothing to hurt him. He was helping him.
Peter’s eyes flickered back to soft honey brown. He forced his fangs out of James’ wrist, lapping up the last few drops before the weight of what he’d done crashed down on him. Tears welled up in his eyes.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he muttered, retreating as fast as his trembling limbs would let him. James reached out, but Peter was faster, scrambling up the wall and into the shadows. He clung to the ceiling, pressing himself into the darkness, still hungry but unwilling to take more.
James let out a slow breath, pressing his back against the wall. He watched Peter shake, muttering apologies over and over. Something tightened in his chest at the sight. This kid—whoever he was—was terrified of himself.
After a long silence, James spoke again. “My name’s James Barnes. My friends called me Bucky… What’s your name?”
Peter didn’t answer.
Bucky expected that. So he kept talking. “I had a friend once. His name was Steve. Got himself into too much trouble growing up.”
Peter blinked. No one ever talked to him. Not the cruel doctors. Not his food—not that they could. The sound of someone speaking, someone choosing to talk to him, was foreign.
“P-Peter…” The name felt strange in his mouth, like he wasn’t sure it belonged to him.
Bucky looked up. “I like that name.”
Peter sniffled, rubbing his eyes. “Thank you…”
He hesitated before crawling back down from the ceiling, settling on the floor just a few feet away from Bucky. The man took in his messy curls, the faint dusting of freckles beneath layers of dirt. Peter wrapped his arms around his legs again, still shaking, but he inched a little closer.
Bucky didn’t move.
“You’re warm…” Peter mumbled. His voice was barely above a whisper.
Ah. So he was cold.
Bucky stretched out, resting his head on his arm and extending his metal one beside him. “Come here, kid.”
Peter flinched. “I’ll hurt you…” He said it like he couldn’t believe someone would willingly let him close.
Bucky only shrugged. “It’s okay.” He sounded so sure, like it was the simplest thing in the world.
Peter hesitated for a moment longer before slowly crawling closer. At first, he just lay beside him, curled up tight. But as the night stretched on, he unconsciously shifted, ending up sprawled across Bucky’s chest. The soldier’s metal arm wrapped securely around his ribs, his breath ruffling Peter’s hair with each slow exhale.
One of Peter’s hands rested near Bucky’s wound, like he was guarding it.
For the first time in years, they both slept. No nightmares. No horrors. Just the quiet comfort of not being alone.